


Modern Art

by orphan_account



Series: Making Do [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After spending the holidays in London, Phryne and Jack plan a stop in Paris on their way back to Australia. Phryne has her heart set on buying a significant painting at auction. It goes missing. An art theft caper across Europe ensues.Complete





	1. Leaving London

“How’s the weather?” Jack asked, without once looking up from his newspaper. He’d heard the click of her key in the hotel suite’s front door, the rustle of her umbrella as she let it fall to the entryway’s tiled floor. 

“Quite nice, darling,” Phryne said brightly, hanging up her sopping wet raincoat. 

“What do you say we leave here tomorrow?” he added, wryly, from his comfortable, and perfectly dry, seat on living room sofa. He’d adjusted quite well to being a man of leisure while in England. But that was Jack — he fit in nearly anywhere. 

After spending the holidays with Phryne’s family, they _were_ leaving London in the morning, with too-brief stops planned in France and Italy before boarding a steamer back to Australia. 

Alone like this, Phryne had learned over the past few weeks, she and Jack were contentedly domestic — even if it matched no one’s else idea of domesticity, especially her mother’s. But here, in the warmth of the Cadogan Hotel, and firmly outside Margaret Fisher’s orbit, no one else’s old-fashioned sense of propriety mattered in the slightest. 

If the weather were better, and there wasn’t Jack’s job to get back to in Melbourne, Phryne thought, they could go on quite happily this way, perhaps for months, touring the continent, taking in the sights, simply being together before the routines of ordinary life pressed in back home. Perhaps there would be a murder along the way. 

Phryne stopped herself. _Had she just thought that?_ It had been several months since their last murder — sorry, murder investigation — and it was natural to miss the activity, wasn’t it? 

“Are you listening, Phryne?” His direct tone broke through her musings. “A telegram came while you were out at the bankers. From Paris. It’s on the bedside table.” 

Recovering, she walked over to give him a quick kiss — “Thank you, darling” — then into the adjoining bedroom to retrieve said missive. 

“Anything interesting?” he asked, calling into the bedroom without leaving his seat. 

“Actually, yes,” she answered, eyes sparkling as she re-joined him, telegram in hand. “There’s a painting I’ve been after for years. It’s just arrived in Paris.” 

She was positively glowing with excitement. 

Jack knew the look. 

“Are we going to break into a gallery and steal it?” he teased. 

“No need,” she answered. “It’s coming up at auction Wednesday, and we’ll be there.” 

“Ah,” was Jack’s only reply, and he returned to his paper. 

“Have I bored you with my conventionality, Jack?” her tone suddenly low and sultry as she curled up next to him on the sofa and gently removed the newspaper from his outstretched hands. His attention regained, she switched back to playful. “Of course, if you’d truly prefer the adventure, we can make sure a competitor wins the painting at auction, then arrange to steal it from them.” 

Jack laughed, and looked her over carefully. “Are you always this way after a week with your family?” he ventured. 

“You should see me after a few months,” she quipped, and then she was back in motion, rustling through the bedroom closet for a dry coat and hat, returning to the foyer to retrieve her umbrella. “I have to send a telegram, and head back to the bank.” 

“Phryne,” he began, his voice gentle and warm. “Sit down for a minute. Tell me about the painting.” 

“I don’t know how to describe it, Jack. Other than it's one the best I've ever seen. I wish I had a photograph to show you.” 

“When did you last see it?” 

Phryne joined Jack on the sofa. “In Paris. Before Rene. Around the time I met Sarcelle.” 

The excitement manifested in Phryne’s motions moments before now concentrated itself in the warmth and expressiveness of her voice as she told the story. Jack listened intently. 

“Sarcelle’s crowd of painters was mostly male, arrogant young men certain it was their destiny to set the art world on fire. Of course, very few had talent to match their boasting, and even less the discipline to work diligently at their craft. But there was one woman in their midst, Valerie LaFleur — or at least that’s what she called herself, we had our doubts — who truly was destined for greatness.” 

“Did you model for her as well?” Jack asked. 

“Yes, although the painting the resulted was so abstract I’m not certain you could say that I was the model. Maybe a muse. Maybe just company as she worked out whatever was already in her mind's eye.” 

“She sounds fascinating,” Jack added, wondering silently how anyone could spend time in close proximity to Phryne and _not_ be inspired. 

“She was. I sometimes think she was as much a model for me as I was for her. Her confidence was quiet, grounded in her craft and experience, not all show like the young men swirling around the salons. And her powers of concentration as she worked! I watched her for hours.” 

“A model for post-war Phryne,” Jack offered, using the phrase Phryne had used a few weeks ago, when they last spoke about the end of the war. 

“Something like that,” she answered, eyes sparkling, then placed her hand on his arm to mark another change of mood. “I need to send the telegram now, darling. Let the auction house know we’ll participate.” 

Jack nodded, recognizing her need to be back in motion. Phryne stood, gathering up her rain gear to head out into the London street. 

“What happened to Miss LaFleur?” Jack asked as she reached the front door. 

“I have no idea,” Phryne responded. “I fell in with Rene. We lost touch. It’s a mystery.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan is for this to be a light case fic. I'm headed to Europe on vacation early next week and needed to fabricate a reason to bring Phryne & Jack along with me ;-)


	2. Paris

“Claude, mon ami!” Phryne was at her most exuberant Wednesday morning, Jack trailing behind her, as they entered a café near the Place de l’Opera and greeted her old friend, art dealer Claude Delacroix. 

“Old friend, old friend?” Jack had asked on the way in.

“Not likely,” Phryne had responded. “I’m not his type.”

“I find it hard to believe such a person exists,” Jack parried.

Phryne gave him a look that managed to say both “think harder” and “I can’t believe you’re missing the obvious.” Jack was a liberal-minded man, presently situated in a most liberal quarter of the Continent, but varieties of human experience that stayed in the shadows in the more proper precincts of Melbourne weren’t always at the forefront of his mind.

Phryne read his confusion — she had kept him up late last night after all — and graciously supplied the additional clue. “His companion, David, is a fine sculptor. We’re all old friends.”

The morning’s meeting was a mixture of business and pleasure. Claude had alerted Phryne to the arrival at auction of “Study 52”, the long-lost painting by her equally long-lost friend Valerie LaFleur. With the auction this afternoon, Phryne intended to glean any information that might help her in the bidding, and Claude was bound to know something.

After a round of greeting, introductions, and requisite small talk, Phryne got down to business. “Why now Claude?”

“Why does this LaFleur come to auction today, and not three years ago, par example?” Claude shrugged, that particularly Gallic shrug that suggested both the question and the answer were unimportant in the grand scheme of things. He then turned to Jack, “You’ve turned her into quite the detective.”

“She did that all on her own,” Jack replied.

“Has Phryne told you about the time we sold a minor Monet for ten times its asking price?”

“To a minor American industrialist,” Phryne added. “He couldn’t tell a Monet from a Rembrant. It wasn’t a hard bargain to strike.”

“Because he wanted you, Phryne,” Claude responded. “And anything you had touched.” He turned to Jack again, beaming, “Phryne was the best business partner I ever had.” Claude, being an old friend, surely meant it as a gesture of admiration of her prowess as a sales person, which had lined both of their pockets well.

Phryne had more mixed feelings on the enterprise. It was her first foray into turning her inherited money into an income of her own, free and clear of any family strings. For that she would be forever grateful. But she wasn’t proud of leading men on who otherwise had no appeal to her, simply for the purpose of making a sale. Inevitably, as in the case of the minor American industrialist, it did happen.

“When was this?” Jack asked.

“Fall of ’20. Some of ’21. About six months all in all.” Phryne answered matter-of-factly, aiming to move the conversation back to the auction. Of course, she would tell Jack anything he wanted to know, later, when they were alone.

“Surely you miss it Phryne,” Claude implored. “The thrill of a big catch.”

“There’s only one catch I’m interested in today, Claude.” She meant the LaFleur painting, but took Jack’s hand as well. “Besides,” she continued, “the American industrialists, major and minor, are having a rather hard go of things right now.”

“True, true,” Claude said with a sigh. He wasn’t one to hold on to things that weren’t meant to be. It was one of the reasons he and Phryne had stayed friends after she moved on. “David’s latest patron went back to Chicago in November to mind his paper clip factory.”

Phryne laughed heartily. “It’s not truly a paper clip factory, is it?”

“Paper clips, razors, automobile parts? How do I know? And who cares? Only art matters, yes? Only art.” With this Claude lifted his glass and made a toast to Phryne’s success at the afternoon auction.

Lunch proceeded, and was delightful, but Phryne didn’t get any answers to clarify the story of the mysterious LaFleur.

Claude excused himself to return to his office. Jack and Phryne kept the table.

“You think he’s hiding something,” Jack mused.

“Claude? I don’t like to think so. But you were right earlier. I am a detective now. And something tells me Claude was evasive on purpose.”

“How does Claude benefit from the auction?” Jack asked, moving into detective mode as well.

“A small finder’s fee as my broker, should I win,” she answered.

“Might he have other dogs in the hunt?”

“Yes, but that’s not unusual. I honestly can’t imagine why any of the big international buyers would be after the LaFleur.”

“You don’t think it’s valuable?”

“It’s valuable to me, for personal reasons. It may someday have some value to a museum devoted to female painters of this period. But LaFleur never became a major artist. I’d be surprised if one in ten serious collectors knew her name.”

“Something else on Claude’s mind then?” Jack offered.

“I suppose,” Phryne responded with a shrug. There wasn’t nearly enough to go on. “People change. Old friends aren’t always close friends.”

Jack caught their waiter’s eye and motioned for the check. “In that case, let’s get there early. Have a proper look around.”

“I’m not looking for a mystery, Jack,” she said firmly, more for her own sake than for his. “I want to get the painting — or not get the painting — I do have an upper limit in mind — and get on with our trip home. I’m sure there are mysteries enough waiting for us in Melbourne.”

They collected their heavy winter coats and headed to out into the blustery afternoon. Neither one noticed the small figure of an older woman, poorly dressed for the January cold, who slipped away from an adjacent table and followed them in the direction of Place d’Concorde.

* * *

Several hours later, auction in progress, Phryne waited, impatiently, for the LaFleur to come up for bid.

Earlier, perusing the brochure, she had expressed a few doubts.

“Perhaps it’s a poor photograph?” she ventured.

“Hmmm?” Jack whispered in response, unsure of the right level of voice one should use during a major art auction.

“Study 52 doesn’t match my memory,” Phryne responded. “The figure is the same. The shapes, here, represent different facets of the subject’s consciousness. But the work seems less bold, less vibrant, than I remember.”

“You,” Jack said.

Now Phryne was confused.

“You said ‘the subject’, but she was painting you, your facets,” he continued.

Phryne smirked. “That must be one of the oddest sentences I’ve ever heard you say, Jack Robinson. I’m not sure anyone has ever painted my facets,” she purred.

Jack laughed out loud, a genuine belly laugh that certainly wasn’t appropriate for a major art auction. They were appropriately shushed.

“Will they show the painting before the bid?” he whispered.

“Yes, certainly,” she answered.

“Follow your instinct then,” he said. “If it doesn’t seem right, we’ll leave.”

Phryne smiled warmly, delighted once again to have him as such a steady presence at her side.

“Besides,” he added, whispering in her ear as the perfect parting line came to mind. “Your instincts are at least as good as your facets.”

* * *

In the end Phryne’s instincts, and bank account, said to bid, deciding that the worthy painting on the stand in front of her was worth the acquisition, even if a ten-year-old memory — quite possibly unreliable — said that the luster wasn’t fully there.

“What happened to Claude?” Jack asked as they waited their turn at the auction house’s business office.

“I haven’t seen him since the Sisley was up,” Phryne answered.

“That was a very nice one,” Jack enthused. He’d always liked the impressionists.

“Museum quality,” Phryne answered. “And out of our price range, darling.”

Jack smiled. “I really didn’t care for it.”

“Miss Fisher,” a clerk called, and Phryne took a seat at the large desk.

“Is the agreed upon amount?” he asked, slipping a piece of paper across to her. “If so, the seller requests a wire, payable in Swiss Francs, to this bank account.”

“This Swiss bank account?” she asked in reply.

The clerk nodded perfunctorily.

“In that case,” she continued, instincts on high alert, “I’d like the painting in hand as I make the transaction. Surely you can spare a man to accompany me to the bank.”

“That is not possible Mademoiselle,” the clerk answered.

“In that case the deal is off,” Phryne pushed her chair back from the desk and stood up. “I am not sending thousands of francs to an untraceable foreign account without an assurance that the painting will be in my possession as soon as I authorize the funds.”

By now there was a commotion, a much greater offense to the calm propriety of the auction house that Jack’s earlier laugh.

A manager hustled over. “What seems to be the problem Mademoiselle?”

“I’d like to see my painting,” Phryne demanded.

“I assure you, we are very reputable auction house,” the manager declared.

“And I assure you, I am a very reputable buyer,” Phryne declared right back. “I won’t do business this way.”

At the moment, the elusive Claude entered the picture, somewhat breathless. “Phryne, I’m so glad I found you in time, mon ami. Do not pay these gentlemen.”

“I have no intention of paying these gentleman or any other gentlemen until I see the painting,” she replied. “And where have you been?”

“I’ve been in the storage bay, inspecting the Sisley,” he replied. “The Sisley is perfect. But Study 52 has been stolen.”

Jack sidled up behind Phryne to catch the end of the conversation. He eyed Claude carefully. “Looks like we’ll be needing our detective skills after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how high end auctions work, now, or in Paris in 1930. But I'm on vacation — research is the first thing to go ;-)


	3. Paris, later that night

“More bread, Monsieur?” the waiter asked Jack, haughtily. But then haughty came with the territory at La Tour D’Argent, one of Paris’ oldest and finest restaurants. 

“It was one of the first places my father wanted to come once we had money,” Phryne had said earlier, some time between the fiasco at the auction house and their return to a rented apartment on Rue Saint-Jacques. “Father had heard that French kings ate here, and thought he deserved no less.” 

“Had French kings eaten there?” Jack had asked. 

“If you believe the advertising,” Phryne answered dryly. “A spectacular lie works just as well for Father as the truth on most public occasions. Certainly, you’ve learned that about him by now.” 

In truth, there was a touch of spectacle in Phryne’s desire to come La Tour D’Argent tonight. If she wasn’t going to have her painting, or a ready answer about its disappearance, she was prepared to spend a significant portion of her art budget on one spectacular meal. 

“Have you decided on the wine, Monsieur?” the waiter prodded, again directed at Jack, although the wine list lay unmolested at the center of the table. 

Where Baron Henry Fisher would have made a show, Jack Robinson simply redirected the waiter to Phryne with a simple and authoritative “Miss Fisher”. 

“The Chablis,” she stated, pointing to a bottle on the list. “The ’27 if you have it. If not, I’ll select another vintage.” 

“Very well, Madame,” the waiter replied by rote, exiting the table with a small bow, then scowling at Jack when he thought Phryne wasn’t watching. 

Jack didn’t notice — “why can’t we get bread this good in Melbourne” — and Phryne let it go. Chiding judgmental waiters wasn’t anywhere near the top of her agenda for the evening. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to talk to Claude tonight,” Jack said. 

“I’m afraid I’d say things I’d regret,” Phryne answered. “Tomorrow morning is soon enough.” 

“You’re not suggesting the theft is his fault?” 

“No, but there’s been something fishy about this all day, starting with Claude’s evasiveness at lunch.” 

“What did he say to the authorities at the auction house?” Jack asked. They had split up after the painting’s theft was revealed – Phryne stuck with Claude while Jack surveilled the exits. 

“Nothing you don’t already know,” Phryne replied. “Claude says he was focused on the appraisal of the Sisley and didn’t see anything unusual.” 

“And what did you learn from the investigator?” 

“He wouldn’t speak with me. I have no formal claim. I didn't _own_ the painting at the time of the theft. All I had was an agreement _to_ own it.” There was undertone of genuine longing underneath Phryne's frustration. 

“Unconsummated love,” Jack smirked. “The saddest kind.” 

Phryne rolled her eyes, but the waiter returned before she could match Jack’s repartee. 

The waiter poured a small amount of wine into Phryne’s glass then held the bottle out, label forward, for her inspection. “The ’27, Madame.” 

Phryne played her part in the ritual, lifting the glass to sniff the liquid, then tasting. “Oui, merci,” she said crisply, placing the glass back down on the table and returning her full attention to Jack. 

The waiter filled both glasses, the placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket in a stand beside the table. 

“Do you ever reject the wine?” Jack asked, honestly curious. “Are you testing to see if they put a less expensive wine in a fine wine’s bottle, or is the whole thing just for show?” 

“Well, you’re testing to see if they’ve given you vinegar — if the wine has spoiled somehow.” 

Jack nodded. “Yes, of course.” 

“But I have seen men draw the whole process out to impress their dining companion,” Phryne answered. “Sending a perfectly good bottle back in some show of superiority. I watched a son of duke do the very thing one evening in London — I quite liked him before-hand. When he escalated the dispute to near fisticuffs with the sommelier, I excused myself from the table and never returned.” 

“Lucky me,” Jack answered. 

“Lucky _me_ ,” Phryne returned with a wide smile and a genuine laugh. 

Jack lifted his glass. “I assume this is the ’27 Chablis then.” 

“Jack!” Phryne exclaimed, in a voice a little too loud for the hushed environment of the dining room. “You’ve given me a clue, darling. We should see Claude tonight. I think I know what he may be up to.” 

* * *

Several hours later, after a lovely, but shortened, meal (“Only five courses, Madame? But you are paying for nine. Price fixe.”) Phryne and Jack walked along the Seine in the dark January night. It wasn’t the invigorating briskness of a sharp cold. It was the kind of damp cold that seeps inside and makes you feel like you might never warm up. The ancient cathedral of Notre Dame, adorned with its spectacular gargoyles, loomed on the opposite river bank. Phryne and Jack turned left, into the narrow medieval streets that led towards the Sorbonne. 

This time, Jack noticed the poorly clothed older woman who followed them. 

He took Phryne’s arm and pulled her closer. “Do you have your gun?” he whispered. 

“Of course,” she answered. 

“Follow my lead,” he said, as they turned sharply right off Rue Saint-Jacques on to the narrower Rue Saint-Severin. 

Jack spun around as soon as they made the turn and found himself face to face with the older woman. “Why are you following us,” Jack demanded, gambling that the gruffness of his tone would cover any language barriers. 

The woman, sufficiently surprised, stepped back and attempted to retreat toward the River. Phryne, who had moved smoothly to her rear, a ready hand on the gun in her coat pocket, blocked the woman’s escape. 

“Phryne,” the older woman implored in French, “Please do not let your man harm me.” 

Now it was Phryne’s turn to be shocked. In the dim light, she studied the woman’s face carefully, searching for a clue to the woman’s identity and intentions. 

“Valerie?” Phryne cautiously ventured. 

“Yes, it is me. Valerie. I am nothing like what you remembered, yes?” 

Phryne smiled. Clearly the years had not been kind to this woman, but there was something in her steadiness of voice and fiery eyes that confirmed that she was Valerie LaFleur, the confident, supremely talented artist Phryne had known ten years before. Phryne was flooded with warmth at the recognition and gathered Valerie into her arms. 

Jack watched the reunion, still uncertain, but relieved that the threat of conflict had receded. 

Phryne took Valerie’s hand and spoke to her in calm tones. “We’ve rented an apartment a few blocks up Saint-Jacques. Let’s get you warmed up and we can talk. We have quite a mystery to unravel.” 


	4. Leaving Paris

“Don’t blame Claude, Phryne. It was all my idea.” 

That was all they had managed to get out of Valerie Wednesday night. 

After they got her off the street and upstairs to the apartment, (a friend from London had chosen warmer climes over the damp Paris winter and was glad to have Phryne look in on the place for a few days) Jack set about making a fire while Phryne insisted that Valerie have a hot bath and a meal before they talked about anything unpleasant. 

“Has she been living on the street?” Jack asked. 

“Possibly,” Phryne mused, rifling through her trunks for a suitable dress to provide when she emerged from the bath. “She’ll be safe with us tonight at least, and warm if I can find something that might fit her.” 

“We have a few eggs in the kitchen, or I can go back outside and see what I can scrounge up?” 

“Perfect,” Phryne answered without really listening, her attention focused instead on the task at hand. 

Jack left the bedroom silently. 

As she heard him leave Phryne caught herself and followed him to the hallway. 

“Jack,” she called. When he turned around, she pulled him close, caressed his cheek and gave him a gentle kiss. “Thank you, darling. For everything.” 

* * *

The next morning, warm and well-rested, Valerie was more forthcoming. She and Phryne shared coffee at a small table in the apartment’s kitchen. Jack had made himself scarce, assuming Valerie would talk more freely if she and Phryne were alone. 

“I’m embarrassed to tell you the story now,” Valerie began. “You’ve been so kind to me. Both of you.” 

“It’s our pleasure,” Phryne answered. “You must know how much I value your work.” 

“It was long time ago,” Valerie answered, then lapsed into silence once again. 

“I believe I’ve figured out part of what happened yesterday,” Phryne continued. “But if we stand any chance of getting the painting back, you will have to tell me why.” 

“I will try.” 

“Study 52 was hiding a more valuable canvas underneath. Is that right?” 

“Claude told me you had become a detective. But how could you determine this from one viewing at the auction house?” 

“The smuggler did a poor job of re-stretching the canvas over the frame. I couldn’t pinpoint the problem at first, or recognize the significance. Finally, at dinner, it came to me.” 

Valerie watched intently as Phryne spoke, recognizing some of her own confidence and drive in Phryne’s sure explanation. 

Phryne continued, “On the left top quadrant of the composition, the maroon half circle was tilted too far left, poorly aligned with the blue rectangle below. Also, Study 52 contains a great deal of white space. I remembered the contrast of the space with the boldness of your color choices. Yesterday, the white space was less vibrant, as if a dark color was layered underneath.” 

“Only one in a hundred would have noticed,” Valerie responded. 

“This was a very special painting to me,” Phryne answered. “I believe it was your masterpiece.” 

“No one else has shared your judgement, unfortunately.” There was humility in Valerie’s statement — it would be hard for there not be, given her present financial straits — but a strong resentment bubbled underneath as well. 

“What painting were you hiding?” Phryne continued. 

“A Vermeer,” Valerie answered. “Woman with Child. It’s believed to be the only portrait he modeled on his wife.” 

“And if I remember correctly,” Phryne responded, “It was stolen in the winter of 1920 from a private collector in Berlin.” 

“A private collector who had no claim upon it. The rightful owner fled with it from St. Petersburg during the revolution. It was confiscated by a German customs’ agent.” 

“Who made a tidy sum selling confiscated old masters to the black market,” Phryne added. “I remember the stories. Claude must have as well.” 

“Sergei’s stories,” Valerie answered. “Sergei Demidov. You remember him too, from Madame Lyon’s salon in Montparnasse, yes?” Phryne responded with a small shake of her head. There were so many young men hanging about the studios and salons in those years. So many people she had met once or twice in the swirl of a party or dance and never thought of again. This Sergei made no permanent impression. 

“He remembers you,” Valerie continued. 

“Are you trying to tell me that this Vermeer belongs to Sergei?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you work for him now?” 

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.” 

“Would you like to tell me all at once, or should I keep guessing?” Phryne asked, her tone now growing sharp with frustration. 

“I enjoy watching your mind work, Phryne,” Valerie laughed in reply. “But I will tell you the short version. Then you will know what to do next.” 

“I’m not certain I will,” Phryne replied. “but tell me anyway.” 

Phryne found a pack of cigarettes in one of the kitchen drawers, lit one for herself, and took a long drag. She had craved one rather desperately since they hit Paris, but had deferred in favor of Jack’s preference. The longer she spent with Valerie, the more the craving won out. 

She offered a second cigarette to Valerie, who then continued with her story. 

“Last fall, Sergei hired a man to steal the Vermeer in Berlin. He wished to re-acquire the family asset to liquidate it for cash. Once the thief was successful, I wrapped the Vermeer in my canvas and arranged with Claude to have it sold here in Paris.” 

“To me,” Phryne answered incredulously. “I was a cog in this plan all along?” 

“I apologize Phryne. We never thought you would have to know what was underneath. Claude would remove the Vermeer, send it on to its next destination, and you would have your Study 52. Everyone would be happy.” 

“But someone stole it out from under Claude’s nose?” 

“Yes, apparently.” 

“And you can’t tell the authorities?” 

“Precisely.” 

“And Sergei is not happy with this turn of events, I imagine. Nor is the intended buyer.” 

“No.” 

“Which places you and Claude in grave danger.” Phryne stood now, pacing slowly in the tiny kitchen as she pieced together the full scope of the situation before them. 

“We did not mean for it to become this complicated.” 

“I would have purchased Study 52 from you, Valerie,” Phryne stated, her anger rising to the surface. “That would have avoided this entire mess.” 

“Study 52 is not worth anything, Phryne. The canvas is worth more than the completed work.” 

“It was worth something to me. Claude knew that.” 

However events had transpired, there was now a problem at her doorstep (well, at her borrowed kitchen table), and she wasn’t going to abandon friends in a time of need if there was anything she could do about it (well, anything she and Jack could do about it — she certainly wasn’t going to face this one alone). 

“I’ll need to speak with Claude,” Phryne continued. “The financial logic of this scheme is murky to me at best. Where was my money intended to go? It wasn’t enough to cover the Vermeer.” 

Before Valerie could answer, Phryne was in motion, throwing key and francs into a handbag and heading to the hall closet for her winter coat. Valerie followed her. 

“Please wait here for Jack,” Phryne said. “Ask him to stay here until I return.” 

“And then what?” Valerie asked. 

“We recover the painting, of course.” 

* * *

Later that evening, Phryne and Jack found themselves in a cozy private cabin on an overnight train to Venice. 

“You’re being an awfully good sport about this,” Phryne said, pouring a tall glass of wine for each of them. 

“Italy was on our schedule, wasn’t it?” Jack replied. “I’ve always wanted to see Venice.” 

“I think we’ll be seeing rather more of the back alleys than I intended if Claude’s information is correct. How’s your Italian?” 

“Non-existent. How’s yours?” 

“Nowhere near as good as my French.” 

Jack was undisturbed. He took examined the wine bottle, then accepted the glass Phryne offered, sniffed once, and took a sip. “Not quite the ’27 Chablis, is it?” 

“Now who’s the wine expert,” she laughed. 

“Would you like to fill me in on the next phase of our plan?” Jack asked. 

“You’ll be the first to know, darling.” 

“I learn quickly,” he replied, then settled back to enjoy the ride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full points to the first person who explains the Vermeer joke ;-) (No, it's not a real Vermeer.)


	5. A Conversation in Piazza San Marco

“Seen any missing Vermeers stroll buy?” Phryne smiled widely as she joined Jack at a table. 

“Two or three, but they weren’t the ones we were after,” Jack answered wryly, greeting her with a kiss as she sat down across from him. 

Venice was unseasonably warm for early January. The cafes in Piazza San Marco rushed tables and chairs out to the main plaza to take advantage of the opportunity. St. Mark’s Basilica, ornate and gilded, loomed to their left; the brilliant blue and gold of the Clock Tower, topped with the winged lion of Venice, stood proudly across the square. In the midst of more elaborate public art and the bustle of the mid-day crowd, it was easy to pretend that a small canvas might pass by unnoticed. 

Phryne had slept in, unable to resist the luxury of the sumptuous bed at the Hotel Metropole after a poor night’s sleep on the train from Paris. Jack, for his part, had been up and about early, after an exchange of telegrams with a police colleague in Melbourne had led him to a former Australian cop turned art museum security guard. 

Once she settled in and ordered coffee, Jack turned to business. “Did you know about the theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre?” he asked. 

“I know I was a little distracted in Paris, but surely I would have heard about that one,” she laughed. 

“1911, darling.” Jack gently interrupted, tapping a notebook that rested between them on the table. “It was recovered in Italy in 1913.” 

“Here in Venice?” she asked. 

“No, no, Florence,” he answered. 

“17 years ago, in a different city,” she smiled, then sipped from the steaming hot espresso the waiter had placed before her. “How precisely does this help us today?” 

Jack smirked in response, enjoying the good natured teasing that had remained a part of their rhythm together in this still-new phase of their coupledom. 

“There are choke-points on the black market with these famous painting,” Jack continued. “That’s what tripped up the guy who stole the Mona Lisa.” 

“I would think the Mona Lisa would have rather been too famous to sell.” 

“There were rumors that the thief wasn’t in it alone — that the mastermind was going to make counterfeits and dupe rich Americans, but none were ever found.” 

“You’ve learned quite a lot this morning, Jack. Go on.” 

“The important part for us is how they caught the thief. Authorities worked with an art dealer who was supposedly helping the thief. The dealer told the thief that painting had to be authenticated before it could be sold. The thief produced the painting. The painting was recovered. Authentication is the choke-point.” 

Phryne leaned forward as a new piece of the puzzle started to come together. “This fits with what Claude told me yesterday when he arrived,” she added. “Vermeer is hard to authenticate. He was somewhat notable in his lifetime, then fell out of favor for hundreds of years. When he was rediscovered a few decades ago, there were thought to be over a hundred works, but that number has been whittled down.” 

“So we might not be looking for a true Vermeer?” Jack surmised. 

“Well, Sergei Demidov thinks it’s real, as does his original buyer, and presumably our Paris thief.” Phryne answered. 

“Or why go to the trouble.” Jack added. 

“Precisely.” 

Phryne opened her handbag and took out a cigarette. As she was about to ask the waiter for a light, Jack caught her eye and held her gaze with a look she now recognized as _“I’d really prefer you not do that”_. She put the cigarette away and took a sip of her coffee espresso instead. It wasn’t the same. 

“Jack,” she began. “What was your feeling about this Australian security guard fellow? What was his name again?” 

“Vincent Spano.” 

“Vincent Spano,” she repeated. “The Mona Lisa story aside, did you find him trustworthy?” 

“I suppose so,” Jack answered. “As much as one can tell from one brief meeting.” 

“But you are an excellent judge of character, darling. I think you can tell quite a lot.” 

“He seemed quite solid — a man who does his job well and believes great art is worth protecting.” 

“Good,” Phryne answered. “Now I need you to bend him a little.” 

Jack smirked in response. “How little?” 

“I’d like you and Vincent to pose as Vermeer experts. Claude and I will spread the word to the dealers around town and we’ll construct a little trap for our thief, whoever he may be.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” Jack answered, but his voice stayed low and even. There may have even been a hint of excitement at the prospect, not that he wished to betray that sentiment to Phryne. 

“Only mildly dangerous, if we do it right,” she purred. 

“Within acceptable parameters of danger,” he responded. “We’ve been doing our best to define those, haven’t we?” 

Phryne smiled widely and held his gaze. How he managed to turn a sentence that included the words “acceptable parameters” into something sensuous and alluring was beyond her. But there he was. 

“Jack,” she answered instead, “I’ve missed this.” 

“This?” he queried. 

“Working cases together,” she replied. “I know we’ve been devoting ourselves to other _parameters_ lately,” she drew the word out, making the subtext plain to anyone who passed by, “But this, darling, this is still one of the things we do best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1911 theft of the Mona Lisa — true story: [more here](http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/law-order/mona-lisa-theft-in-1911-was-one-of-the-worlds-greatest-art-heists-of-all-time/news-story/da4b78805cbeeb50e9affde4ec5a036c?sv=cf1477d95e3daacaccaa091fd92aab68)


	6. Murano

“That boat looks very nice on you, Jack!” 

Phryne stood on the Hotel Metropole’s private dock, leaning over the railing to watch Jack pilot a small motor boat down the Rio de la Pleta, the canal that ran along the right side of the grand hotel. A doorman helped Jack tie the boat to dock, then assisted Phryne into the craft. 

“Why didn’t I know that this was in your repertoire?” Phryne teased. 

“I’m entitled to a few mysteries, Miss Fisher,” he parried. “Wouldn’t want you to grow bored of me.” 

“Never, darling,” she answered, smiling widely. “But this might have added to our fun at Queenscliff.”

Jack neatly coiled the mooring line and pulled the craft slowly away from the dock, under one of Venice’s hundreds of bridges and into the wide channel of the lagoon. The day wasn’t as warm as the previous one, but the January sun was bright and the winds calm. 

Several gondolas bobbed in wait at the San Zaccaria dock, their indistinguishable gondoliers decked out in matching uniforms of red-striped shirts and dark pants, hoping to entice passing tourist couples into a romantic ride through the Grand Canal. Phryne found this new facet of Jack — confidently at the wheel of this sleek chrome and polished wood motor launch — far more enticing than the gondoliers. 

“Where are we headed?” Phryne asked, shouting over the sound of the motor as the wind whipped through her hair. 

“Murano,” Jack answered, steering expertly into the boat traffic that constantly circled Venice. As they rounded the island towards the armory, Jack pointed across the channel. “There,” he shouted, “two miles north. Vincent’s recommendation.” 

Vincent Spano, the Australian cop turned museum security guard, now newly recruited to Jack and Phryne’s cause, had recommended the island as a base of operations for their sting. Home to a thriving glass-blowing industry for centuries, Murano was considerably smaller and easier to navigate than Venice itself. If they could entice the art thief to more favorable turf, there would be less chance of him getting away. 

Phryne nodded and sat back to enjoy the view, perfectly happy to let Jack take the lead in this phase of the operation. 

* * *

Several hours later, the pale winter sun cast shadows across an apartment bedroom situated just above Murano’s main channel. 

“Valerie should paint you in this light,” Jack said softly, stroking Phryne’s bare shoulder as she reclined on the bed. 

“She’s an abstract artist,” Phryne laughed, “I’m not sure the Italian light affects the placement of her rectangles.” 

“Someone else then,” Jack replied, pulling her close to begin another round of lovemaking. 

After arriving on the island, they had quickly surveyed the terrain. It was only another thirty minutes work to find a furnished apartment to rent — weekly, cash upfront — leaving the middle of the afternoon free for more pleasurable pursuits. They were still on vacation, after all. 

“What about you darling?” Phryne asked between kisses. 

“Me what?” 

“I might have like to have someone paint you like this” she purred, running a hand down Jack’s torso and around his bare buttock. “Or sculpt,” she gushed. “Claude’s partner David is really very good, and he does some representational work still. What do you think?” 

Jack, really rather focused on not thinking before Phryne changed their focus, pulled back from her and sat up straight, pulling the sheet up to his waist as he moved. “I, well…, I haven’t ever — is that something you want?” 

Jack’s voice took a stern edge on the last question. 

Phryne decided to ignore the rogue wave. 

“You’re a beautiful man, Jack,” she continued, tugging the sheet away again and moving in close. “I’d like to have that beauty captured by a fine artist.” She kissed him gently. “Something to put in our bedroom at home.” 

“Nnnnaked,” he stammered, stopping her kisses. 

“Well, yes,” she replied firmly. 

Jack pulled back from her embrace, lifted himself out of bed, pulled on his smalls, and then his trousers. It didn’t take a world class detective to read that body language. 

“Jack,” she began, drawing his name out to at least three syllables. “Not two minutes ago you were planning to commission a nude portrait of me.” 

“That’s different,” he replied, buttoning his shirt furiously, as if the landlady were standing in the open doorway. 

“Because I’m a woman,” she accused. 

“No,” he declared. “Of course not.” 

“Then because David is gay,” she ventured. She was out of bed now also, facing him at the foot of the bed. He reached for his jacket. She was still defiantly unclothed. 

“Phryne,” he spat. “Why are you turning this into a fight.” 

“Because I don’t understand your reaction, Jack. The double standard.” 

“There’s no double standard. Phryne Fisher parades on stage in front of dozens of strangers with feathery pink fans and very little else. Jack Robinson does not.” 

Phryne's anger rose, but she managed to hold her tongue and stand her ground — a heroic effort of self-control as far as she was concerned. 

Jack broke eye contact first, turning to the dresser to retrieve his wallet and keys, then retrieving Phryne’s blouse from the adjacent chair. 

“Here darling,” he offered, handing over the garment, his voice softer now as he attempted to mitigate the conflict. “It will be dark soon. I’d rather not chance it across an unfamiliar channel back to Venice in the dark.” 

Phryne huffed, but took the blouse from him and crossed the room to gather the rest of her clothing. “This conversation isn’t over,” she said. “Just so you know.” 

“None of our conversations are ever over, Phryne,” he replied. “The day we stop talking….” 

He let his first statement trail off, then moved closer to her to speak more quietly, more carefully. “This,” he began, gesturing between their bodies as he pulled her to him, “It’s not an abstraction to me. It’s living and real and private. I don’t want anyone else depicting it in art. I want us to be the only ones who have an image of us together.” 

* * *

Phryne and Jack carefully locked the apartment door, made their way silently down the ancient staircase and along the canal-side path to their rented boat. The sun was already low in the January sky. Murano seemed nearly deserted as the glass trinket merchants pulled in their wares and closed up shop. The lights of Venice beckoned across the lagoon. 

“There should be some blankets in the dry hold,” Jack said as they reached the launch. “I’m afraid it’s going to get cold fast.” 

A dark figure seated in the boat’s cockpit heard Jack’s voice and turned towards them as they approached. “Miss Fisher,” he called, one hand on the wheel the other on the pistol resting in his lap. “It’s been too long.” 

“Sergei,” Phryne ventured, her confident tone masking any surprise or trepidation. “I thought we weren’t due to meet until Claude’s soiree later.” 

“Claude is confident in your ability to recover my painting,” he began. “However, I find blind trust to be a poor instrument for the world as we find it in these times.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Phryne answered, matching her brazenly confident tone with nimble action as she stepped into the craft and moved to untie the bowline. “Are you traveling with us tonight? I’m afraid we must get going.” 

Sergei stood quickly, his rough motion shaking the entire craft. “You never did have the time of day for me, did you Phryne? I’m right to watch you closely. I’ve been watching you all afternoon.” 

Jack shuddered at his insinuation. Someone _could_ have been watching them in the apartment. They had no reason to trust the landlady. They’d let passion override prudence. 

Phryne’s bravado didn’t pause or falter. “If that’s so, you know we’re not hiding anything. We don’t have the Vermeer. Certainly Claude has explained the plan to snare the thief.” 

Emboldened by Phryne’s confidence, Jack stepped aboard, retaking the cockpit while Sergei trained his attention on Phryne. 

Raising the ignition key in one hand, Jack called to her, “Aft line, Miss Fisher.” 

“Captain,” she acknowledged. “Last call Sergei,” she continued. “We’re shoving off with or without you.”

Sergei placed his gun in his coat pocket, pushed past Jack, and hoisted himself up to the pier. 

Phryne quickly untied the aft line as Jack gunned the engine, entering the main canal at much higher speed than advisable. 

“He’s bluffing, Jack,” she said as they reached the open water of the lagoon. “He’s always been an ass. He wasn’t watching us.” 

“You don’t know that,” Jack responded. 

“I do Jack,” she said, her voice full of the same surety she had used to handle Sergei at the dock. “There was no harm done.” 

The sun dipped lower in the sky, but the prospect of an awe-inspiring sunset in the western sky of one of Italy’s most romantic destinations was no consolation. “I need to concentrate, Miss Fisher,” Jack said firmly, eyeing the crossing traffic — swift craft piloted by men who knew how to read the nuance of every wave on the horizon. 

Phryne didn’t answer. She wrapped the blanket closely around her shoulders, warding off the winter chill. 


	7. Venice, later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, because the tone shift really makes it work best on its own. 
> 
> One final Venice chapter to follow in the next day, and two more to wrap up the rest of the case in the next 4-5 days.

“Here, let me,” Phryne said, crossing the hotel bedroom to Jack’s position beside the dark cherry-wood armoire. She fiddled with his bow tie, smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, then, not quite satisfied, untied the bow to do it up again. 

Jack stilled her hands with his own, then turned to the mirror. “I’ve been dressing myself for some time now.” It was an attempt at banter. It didn’t succeed. Phryne retreated to the bathroom for a final check of her makeup. 

The encounter with Sergei a few hours earlier in Murano had them both unsettled. 

Jack was cursing himself for letting his guard down — for spending three months now with his guard down so low that he had agreed, enthusiastically, to an afternoon of sensual pleasures while they were in the middle of working a case. 

“The tux I brought from Australia was perfectly fine, by the way. It served me well aboard ship. Prudence agreed.” He scowled in the mirror as the tie again refused to cooperate. “You didn’t have to buy this one for me.” 

“This one’s better, Jack,” she replied from the next room, without looking. “You look beautiful.” 

Sergei had unsettled Phryne as well. The case wasn’t a murder after all — at least not yet. She thought they had time to enjoy the investigation, slowly ease back into a working rhythm after weeks of focusing on the personal. Sergei's hostile bravado — and she was certain that's all it was — had shattered that illusion. 

“Beauty’s not the most important consideration tonight, is it?” Jack stated. “We’re trying to catch a thief.” 

“We're trying to coax a thief from the shadows. In a party full of dissolute nobles and art connoisseurs. Beauty is an important currency.” Phryne laid hands on the maddening bow tie again, made one small adjustment, then pronounced it suitable for the evening ahead. 

She dropped the room key in her evening bag and draped a fur wrap around her bare shoulders. 

“Still, I intend to pay you back for the tuxedo,” Jack said as they entered the dark hallway. “When we get back to Melbourne.” 

“Really, Jack,” she scowled. 

“What now,” he snapped. 

“Three months, darling — the ship, hotels in London and Paris and here — and now you start a conversation about money? Claude’s expecting us at the Palazzo. The water taxi is waiting.” 

Phryne didn’t break stride, or lower her voice, as they made their way down the heavily carpeted hallway to the tapestry-covered walls of the ornate lobby. 

“When would the right time be, Phryne?” Jack replied, giving no ground. “I suppose you’re paying for this party tonight also.” 

“Of course. Claude doesn’t have any money.” 

“That makes two of us then.” 

They swept through the lobby, then out to the wide pavement of the Riva degli Schiavoni. The water taxi idled, meter running, in the main channel. 

“Where is this coming from, Jack?” Phryne asked, a genuine curiosity now mixed in with her ongoing frustration. “You know I don’t use money to keep score. It doesn’t matter to me that way.” 

Jack took her hand in his and held her gaze, searching for his own anchor as he did his best to calm his heart-rate and still his breathing. Minutes passed and they were quiet, blocking out the murmurs of passing pedestrians and the constant babble of boatmen to focus, now, clearly, on one another. 

“It’s just _too much_ some time,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “Too many exotic locales, too many old friends and dissolute nobles. Too many rooms where you know the private signals and hidden secrets and I can barely stay in step.” 

Jack felt as vulnerable here, out in the open on this cloudless winter night, as he felt imagining Sergei watching them in bed that afternoon. 

“Would you rather stay in?” she asked gently. “I can go alone.” 

“No," he said evenly. "That would be worse." 

“Well then,” she replied crisply, once again in motion as she signaled to the water taxi captain, still waiting at the pier, “Let’s go get this over with.” 


	8. at the Palazzo Contarini-Polignac

“Sewing machine heiress?” Jack repeated, taking in the white marble opulence of the Palazzo Contarini-Polignac, a 15th Century palace on the Venice Grand Canal. 

“She picked up two princes along the way,” supplied Jack’s new friend Vincent Spano, “but it’s her inheritance that keeps all this going.” 

A waiter glided by offering glasses of champagne. His wages, and the fine sparkling wine upon his tray, were paid for this evening with Phryne’s money — the soiree assembled by Phryne and Claude to attract the art world of Venice, and their gossip, and thereby suss out who might be trying to move a black-market Vermeer. 

“Is she here?” Jack asked. “The princess?” 

“Paris,” Vincent replied with a laugh. “This is her summer place. Can you imagine?” 

The woman in question was known as Princesse Edmond de Polignac, née Winnaretta Singer, one of twenty-four children of the American industrialist Isaac Singer, and a generous patron of the arts and other charitable causes. Phryne’s fortune was a drop in the bucket compared to that of the Princesse de Polignac. 

“There’s a lot of things I never imagined from my desk at City South,” Jack responded. 

“Knows her art though,” Vincent added. “Comes by the museum to study the old masters. She’ll talk about ‘em with whoever’s standing around. Even me.” 

Jack nodded. “She sounds like quite a lady.” 

“Could do worse things with her money than sponsoring art,” Vincent concluded. He grabbed a full champagne glass and bid Jack farewell. “I’m gonna’ circulate,” he said. “Never know who the tip might come from.” 

Jack knew Vincent was right, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the same, particularly in fumbling Italian, or any of the dozens of other languages swirling about the room. He held up a post at the periphery of the action, convincing himself that he wasn’t indulging his bad mood, but instead, fruitfully watching the shadows, keeping a wary eye on Sergei. 

* * *

Catching Jack’s eye, Phryne excused herself from conversation with one dissolute noble or another and crossed the room to join him at the pillar, snuffing out her cigarette in solidarity before kissing him on the cheek. 

“Vincent’s doing quite well,” she noted. “With his new suit he certainly looks the part of an art expert. No one has recognized him as the museum security guard.” 

Jack’s only reply was a grunt. 

“It wasn’t a veiled jab, Jack. My statement applied only to Vincent. No hidden meaning under the surface.” Now she wished she hadn’t put out the cigarette. 

Hidden meaning or not, Jack was exquisitely sensitive to her slightest changes in tone. “I’m sorry, Phryne,” he offered. “You know I’m not myself tonight.” 

“Good that you’re here, in any case, minding the borders.” She swept a hand around to take in the whole ballroom, crowded with guests. “We’re only allowed the space from here through to the prep kitchen. If you see anyone heading for the stairs or the side corridor, delay them.” 

“Or we’ll have another priceless art theft on our plate,” he surmised. 

“There’s a collection of antique instruments upstairs in the music room, I’m told,” she added. “A Stradivarius, and one of the first piano fortes… if you get too bored at your post…” Phryne drew out the last phrase, aiming again to right the ship with playful teasing. 

She did manage to elicit a small smile. “I’m not certain an instrument that dignified can handle Cole Porter,” Jack smirked. “I better stick to my station.” 

Phryne responded with another quick kiss, then disappeared into the crowd. 

* * *

“I can’t stand him either,” said the tall, and truly strikingly handsome Englishman who joined Jack next at his pillar. “I’d be happy if Claude never spoke to him again.” 

Jack followed the man’s gaze to the edge of the ballroom, where Claude, Phryne and Sergei were deep in conversation. Sergei seemed drunk. Jack couldn’t make out the conversation, but the tension between the three was palpable. 

“David Smythe,” the man continued, reaching out his hand. “And you must be Jack, or else I’ve fumbled this terribly.” 

“Jack Robinson,” he replied, extending his to match the greeting. 

“I’ve never seen Phryne happier,” David continued. “Well not at this exact moment, per se — the painting business and all — but in general…” 

Jack interrupted, attempting to put him out of his misery. “Thank you. I mean, it’s nice to hear that, from an old friend of hers.” 

“What do you say we bump off Sergei tonight and end this whole business?” David ventured. 

Jack recognized a certain wry English humor in David’s tone — a bit like Phryne’s cousin Guy — and felt a bit firmer in his footing. These were signals he could decode. 

“Would that solve your problems,” Jack asked evenly. “If Sergei were gone?” 

“I think you’ll find that I have very few problems,” David answered with an easy confidence. “All I need are art supplies, a quiet room, enough time to do my work.” 

“And yet…” 

“My dear Claude enjoys a more bustling life — and why shouldn’t he? — but he hasn’t adjusted well to the recent downturn in my, uh, professional currency. He struck up his old friendship with Sergei when he learned I planned to work as a waiter to make ends meet. I had no idea he planned to rope Phryne into it.” 

“Do you think there ever was a secret buyer?” Jack asked. 

David shook his head. “I’m not entirely convinced there was a thief at the auction house. At least not an anonymous one. Why, for example, is it taking hours to generate gossip about the black market in this crowd? It doesn’t make any sense. There should be five people claiming to have the Vermeer by now just for the notoriety.” 

Jack laughed, his first true laugh since the encounter with Sergei. He liked David. Quite a lot. 

* * *

Moments later, Phryne emerged from the crowd, rushing to join them at top speed. 

“Where’s Sergei,” she asked, frantically. “Did he come past you?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Could we have missed him? David?” 

But before the conversation could continue they were interrupted by a scream from upstairs. 

A room full of inebriated guests stood in shock. Jack and Phryne ran towards the trouble. 

“Jack! This way!” 

They turned right at the top of the grand staircase to find a woman shrieking in a back bedroom. Vincent Spano writhed in pain on the tile floor, gripping his left leg in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding from an apparent gunshot wound. An open window above him suggested Sergei’s escape route. 

“Jack, give me your jacket!” Phryne shouted. She moved easily into nurse mode, using the arms of the dinner jacket as a tourniquet while searching for other wounds. 

Once Vincent was stable, the rest of the scene came into focus. On the rear wall of the bedroom, a large gold frame stood nakedly empty, completely shorn of its canvas. Just below, Study 52 lay on the ground, a kitchen carving knife piercing the heart of the blue rectangle. 

“Do you know what painting was there?” Jack asked Vincent. 

“A Kadinsky, I think?” he answered gamely. “I’m not as good on the new artists. I followed Sergei like you asked Miss Fisher, but I couldn’t stop him in time.” 

“You did plenty, Vincent,” she answered. “Don’t second guess.” 

Claude had joined them now, trailed by a pair of paramedics who took over the tending of Vincent’s injury. 

“A Kandinsky,” he agreed, turning his attention to the empty frame. “I brokered the deal six months ago for the princess. I told Sergei about it two weeks ago.” 

Phryne knelt to the floor and gently removed the knife from Study 52, holding the handle by the edges, so that her gloves were less likely to smear any usable fingerprints. Jack procured a pillow case as an evidence bag, and took the knife carefully from her hands. 

“Claude, please tell the remaining guests to stay put,” Jack requested, taking command. “It’s going to be a long night of questioning.” 

He did so quickly, leaving Jack and Phryne alone in the room. 

Phryne spoke first. “I imagine Sergei’s half-way to Switzerland now. The Italian authorities won’t catch him in time.” 

“You want to go after him,” Jack replied. It was a statement of fact more than a question. 

“It’s our duty, don’t you think.” Again, more fact than question. “But first we have to go back to Paris. Claude and I should break the news to the princess in person.” 

“Of course,” he replied. 

Phryne lifted Study 52 from the floor and placed it on the bedspread, smoothing its wrinkles and she examined the gash in its center. 

“Can it be repaired?” Jack whispered, closing the distance between them. 

“With the right hand,” she answered, taking his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winnaretta Singer, Princesse Edmond de Polignac, was a [real person](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winnaretta_Singer), and this is her [Palazzo](http://www.palazzocontarinipolignac.com/)


	9. An Unexpected Ally

“Don’t tell me Phryne Fisher is intimidated,” Claude said. 

“Then who should I tell, Claude,” Phryne responded icily. 

They found themselves, this cold January morning, waiting at the threshold of the Princess de Polignac’s imposing Paris mansion on Avenue Henri-Martin, near the Jardins du Trocadero. The massive stone structure housed a collection of fine art worthy of The Louvre, welcomed Europe’s most important new composers, and sheltered her foundation — the charitable organization the channeled her inheritance to both noble causes. 

“If you’d stayed in business with me, you could have amassed this kind of fortune — we both could have,” Claude boasted. 

Phryne glowered at her old friend. “You’re more untethered from reality than I thought, Claude.” 

His only response was a shrug. 

Phryne was indignant. “The princess graciously allowed us the use of her Palazzo and we were not good stewards of that trust. There’s another priceless painting missing and Vincent will live with pain from that leg wound for that rest of his life. I take that seriously.” 

Claude shook his head disapprovingly. “You’ll make a fine policeman’s wife.” 

A butler arrived to usher them inside, all cool efficiency as he took their coats and hats, offered coffee, and directed them to please wait (“the princess will be with you shortly”) in a lavishly appointed ground-floor sitting room. 

Phryne truly didn’t know what to expect. 

She’d only met the princess once in person, on a rather public occasion in London early in the war years, when Phryne was still quite young and just learning the rather elaborate ropes of this world. If she was honest with herself, this morning’s trepidation carried the echoes of her mother’s anxiety on that past occasion — there were still times when years and experience couldn’t cure old judgements. 

It was a pleasant surprise when the sixty-five-year-old princess emerged in black slacks and white silk blouse, her close-cropped hair styled in a simple fashion, looking more like American iconoclast Winnie Singer than the aristocratic Princess Edmond de Polignac. Of course, she was both. 

After exchanging pleasantries (“A private detective in Australia? Fascinating.”) they got down to the business at hand. 

“Although you have no reason to trust our track record,” Phryne began, “We do believe we can recover the Kadinsky from Sergei Demidov. We know where he’s headed.” 

“And you believe he still has the Vermeer?” the princess asked. 

“Yes, we do…” Claude responded. 

Phryne barrelled right over him. “If it _is_ a true Vermeer. I now think Sergei cooked up the whole scheme — the smuggling of the painting under the LaFleur, the supposed theft at the auction house, the events in Venice, to cover the fact that his Berlin theft was fruitless.” 

The princess followed the twists and turns in Phryne’s account without a hitch. If Phryne wasn’t mistaken, a certain sparkle could be seen in her eyes as she worked through the puzzle. 

“I’ve only now realized where I’ve seen you before, my dear,” she said to Phryne. 

“In London, quite a long time ago,” Phryne replied. 

“Here in Paris,” the princess said quickly. “You were model for Sarcelle after the war.” 

Phryne nodded. 

“I quite admired that painting.” 

“It’s hanging in my home in Melbourne. I hope to hang the LaFleur next to it, once the canvas is repaired.” 

The princess stood up and offered Phryne her hand. “It’s settled then. We’ll all go after the Kadinsky tomorrow.” 

“We… all….” Claude stammered. 

The princess ignored him. “Where did you say Sergei was headed?” 

* * *

“Switzerland?” Jack repeated. 

“The Alps, near Lauterbrunnen,” Phryne continued, bustling about the bedroom, sorting through her wardrobe for warmer items. “Not much of an art scene there, but many of the dissolute nobles are there for these few weeks of January for downhill skiing.” She quite enjoyed calling them all dissolute nobles now that she and Jack had settled on this shorthand. 

“Why Switzerland?” 

“You see, Sergei is trying to impress a particular young woman, and she is headed to the Kandahar Ski Club, in Murren.” 

“The last time you took a ski vacation the body count was unreasonably high.” 

“Sergei’s not a serial killer. He hasn’t killed anyone yet. That I know of.” There was a certain twinkle on the last line. It didn't escape Jack's notice. 

“Hardly reassuring,” Jack objected, continuing to play his part. “Besides, I don’t ski.” 

“No matter. The princess has a plan to get Sergei’s attention that doesn’t involve skiing.” Phryne was enjoying this. A change of scenery was just what this case needed to ameliorate the mistakes of Venice. 

“And we’re delegating planning to the princess now?” 

“She’s quite fascinating, Jack. Very sharp. You’ll like her. She finds detective work very interesting.” 

“I have some experience with the phenomenon.” 

“Besides, darling, if we don’t recover this painting, I owe her a Kadinsky.” 

“Let me guess — you don’t have a Kadinsky.” 

“Not one I’m willing to part with.” 

“Well, in that case.” But Jack’s tone was more banter than real frustration. Now that Sergei was the target of the operation and not the beneficiary he felt much better about the strange alliance, even with another wealthy and eccentric aristocrat thrown into the mix. 

“You’ll have fun, Jack,” Phryne said, crossing the room to join him and insinuating herself into his embrace. “The alps are beautiful this time of year.” 

He kissed her soundly, pulling back only to ask, “What time do we leave?” 


	10. Trummelbach Falls

“How’s the princess?” Jack asked as Phryne re-entered the upper room. 

“Settled. We’ve got the fire going in the front room. She has my gun,” Phryne responded. 

Jack raised his eyebrows. 

“No, it’s not ideal,” Phryne continued. “But you and I should stay hidden from Sergei and the sight lines are terrible from the upper landing. You can call her Winnie, you know.” 

This staging area was the Trummelbach Café, a roadside eatery just outside of Lauterbrunnen serving the Trummelbach Falls. The Falls, for their part, were a spectacular tourist attraction presently closed, for good reason, for the winter ski season. 

“I’m really not comfortable addressing her that familiarly,” Jack replied. 

“Come on, Jack. Four trains, three meals, a cable car ride through a sudden snow storm — surely that’s enough to put you on a first name basis.” 

“Took a bit more than that with us,” he smirked. 

“You’re not her type, darling,” Phryne laughed. “Lucky for me.” 

Phryne picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the road. Last night’s snowfall had left a light coating of powder on top of the already heavy snowpack. Sergei was late for the meeting, but there wasn’t yet reason to believe that he wouldn’t appear. Winnie had dangled an enticing piece of bait. 

During one of the long train rides, Winnie had recounted her run-ins with Sergei over the years. In the years following the war and Sergei’s exile from Russia, he had considered himself one of the next great talents in painting. No one else agreed. Phryne remembered his type — all bravado, no follow-through — though her memories of the man himself at that time were still hazy. Over the decade, as his family fortune dwindled and his resentment grew, he ran a series of schemes and cons. It was Claude’s folly to have fallen in to his most recent venture. 

Now, with Phryne’s help, Winnie was going to run her own con. 

“I’ve got the lookout covered,” Jack said, taking the binoculars from Phryne. “You should be well-hidden downstairs when Sergei does arrive.” 

Phryne nodded but was a little reluctant to leave. 

“I know this hasn’t been easy, Jack, and we’re farther away from Melbourne than we should be right now. I will get you back home when this is over.” 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Phryne.” 

There was no hesitation in his answer. He held her gaze for what felt like a lifetime, once again pledging his commitment in a silent affirmation that they both understood perfectly. 

“Besides,” he said playfully, raising the binoculars to the window, “you two haven’t picked the most dangerous spot in the valley.” 

“How’s that?” she responded in kind, moving to join him at the window and ducking under his raised arm to share the lookout spot. 

Jack gently lowered the binoculars to her eyes and pointed left. “There,” he said, “at the end of the valley. Reichenbach Falls.” 

“Do tell,” she enthused, not immediately catching the reference. 

Jack nudged her around so that she was facing him again, encircled in his arms. He bent his head and whispered in her ear, a mischievous smile playing across his features, “It’s where Sherlock Holmes fell to his death.” 

Phryne laughed heartily, pleased Jack had outsmarted her, if only for an instant. She gave him a quick kiss, then pulled away to return to her post downstairs. At the landing, a thought crossed her mind. “Darling,” she called back, “Sergei is no Moriarity.” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the man in question was seated across from Winnie at a heavy wooden farm table. A fire blazed in the hearth behind her, mugs of tea and a plate of pastry lay on the table, yet Sergei seemed unconcerned that anyone else might be present in the remote locale. 

He attempted charming and friendly. “Wouldn’t you have been more comfortable in Murren, Princess? You have many friends in town this week.” 

Winnie was confident and resolute. “I thought we would both value privacy in this exchange, Mr. Demidov. I apologize if you find the conditions to spartan for your taste.” 

“I was only concerned about your comfort, ma’am,” he groveled. 

She’d seen her fair share of groveling. It was easily deflected. “Have you brought the paintings?” 

“Yes.” 

“Both of them.” 

“Yes.” 

“On the table please, Mr. Demidov.” 

Sergei complied, placing a cardboard tube, ends folded, on table between them. 

Winnie unfolded one edge and tugged at each canvas in turn, inching one and then the other out just enough to satisfy herself that the canvases were the works in question. 

“I’m pleased we could come to an agreement without further damage to the paintings or human life,” she stated. 

“And I’m pleased you’ve finally come to your senses about my artistic potential,” he crowed. “Shall we go through the details of my residency?” 

* * *

After Sergei’s arrival, Jack had slipped unseen down the back stairs and now stood quietly in the eaves waiting for the Swiss authorities to arrive. He motioned to Phryne to the open kitchen door. “How much time do we have before we lose him?” 

Phryne turned from him to peer from the kitchen to the dining room. “Not long. She’s checking the paintings now.” 

“They’re not here yet,” he whispered. “Try to catch her eye. She needs to drag this out a bit longer.” 

“We can detain him, Jack. If it comes to that,” Phryne said confidently. 

“I’m not comfortable with that risk, Phryne. We’re outgunned, I presume, and she’ll have the paintings in hand, even if he gets away now. He’ll bounce up again in Paris. That was the point of the bait, wasn’t it?” 

“But we’ll miss it,” Phryne answered quickly. 

“What?” 

“The ending.” 

Before Jack could counter that honest but utterly ridiculous statement, they heard a loud slam from the front room. 

Rushing to the room, they found the princess crouched behind the overturned table, Phryne’s gun in her outstretched hands, and Sergei in her sights. 

Sergei aimed his own gun at the princess. 

The cardboard tube containing the canvases lay on the floor between them in a kind of no-man’s land. 

And Claude – wait, what the hell is Claude doing here, Phryne thought first, and then vocalized. “Claude, what the hell are you doing here!” 

Sergei answered first. “Claude is my true friend, Phryne. He came here to warn me about your treachery. I’m NOT going to prison.” 

“You SHOT a man, Sergei!” Phryne countered, eyes blazing. “For all I know you intended to kill him. You don’t get to walk around free after something like that.” 

With Sergei distracted, Jack quietly joined the princess behind the overturned table, took up the gun and her position, while motioning that she should move to the relative safety of the kitchen. 

“The Swiss authorities will be here any minute,” Jack commanded. “Drop you weapon!” 

Reading Jack’s movements carefully, Phryne inched towards the cardboard tube. With her attention focused on Jack and the object, she didn’t have a perfect read on Sergei’s position. It came down to instinct and timing. She dove for the tube. 

Unfortunately, Claude was faster. He grabbed the parcel from Phryne’s hands before she had a firm grasp. 

Claude and Sergei raced out the front door. 

A Swiss police car swung into the parking lot, blocking the path to any of the potential escape vehicles. 

Desperate, Sergei grabbed the tube from Claude and began to run in the only direction open to him — the footpath to Trummelbach Falls. Phryne was hot on his heels, which meant, of course, that Jack was hot on hers. 

Unlike any other waterfall in the area, or practically any in the world, the ten cascades of Trummelbach Falls exist within the mountain face, surrounded almost completely by rock as they thunder down with tremendous force. The unique features that made them an awe-inspiring site in fine weather made them incredibly dangerous in today’s icy cold. 

Sergei wore sturdy mountaineering boots and maintained his footing well for the first thousand or so yards. Phryne and Jack gave good chase, staying close past the first cascade, and then the second, as the path steadily gained elevation. 

By the time he reached the third cascade, water pounding relentless around him and echoing through the walls of the slot canyon, Sergei seemed to realize the futility of his quest. Panting for breath, he slowed enough for Jack to come with an arm’s reach. 

Though still below him on the footpath, Jack managed, in one forceful lunge, to grab Sergei about the ankles, bringing him to his knees while dislodging both his gun and the parcel containing the Vermeer and Kadinsky canvases. 

Jack, concerned first and foremost with the protection of human life, reached for Sergei’s gun, and succeeded in knocking it clear of the cascade viewing platform and into the watery tumult below. 

Phryne, knowing that Jack had the first situation well in hand, reached instead for the cardboard tube. The tube, though waterlogged, did not follow the path of Sergei’s weapon, and cooperatively lodged in Phryne’s gloved hand. Her shoes, however, not being sturdy mountaineering boots, were decidedly less cooperative. She slipped and fell ten feet down the icy path, her left ankle coming to a hard stop against a granite boulder with a decisive crunch of bone. 

Meanwhile, the tragic Sergei, concerned first and foremost with avoiding the consequences of his actions, heard the footsteps of the approaching Swiss police officers and took his fate into his own hands. With a curse in Russian ringing against the cavern walls, Sergei launched himself over the flimsy metal railing of the viewing platform. He was gone before his battered body reached the second cascade. 

* * *

“Phryne? Are you awake? I’m back.” 

“Bedroom,” she called. 

Jack’s voice echoed through the cozy rooms of an Amsterdam houseboat, sturdily anchored in the Prisengracht Canal, only a few blocks from the Rijksmuseum, the city’s grand palace for its most historic art treasures. 

Phryne’s leg was broken in two places, a solid break at the ankle and a hairline fracture of the fibula. But when Winnie arranged to have the leading Vermeer experts study their much-contested canvas, she wouldn’t hear of anyone else playing courier. The analysis would take months, but at the very least, she could claim the victory of the delivering the painting to the art historians who would most appreciate the find. 

And Phryne hoped it _was_ a true Vermeer. She had grown quite fond of the blonde matron who looked out at her from the canvas, contentedly preparing a meal for her family. The sentimental side of Phryne — yes, it did exist — hated to think that the old master never once preserved his wife’s beauty on canvas. 

Her dear Jack, whose own beauty would likely never be preserved on canvas or sculpted in marble, entered the bedroom with a look of gentle concern. “How’s the pain?” he inquired, offering a cup of water and her next dose of medication, which she accepted gratefully. 

“Manageable, darling. No need to worry.” 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you this still, Phryne. It’s not natural.” 

“Just another facet, Jack. Keeps things interesting.” 

"What was in the mail from Paris?" 

"A letter from Winnie. She's keeping the Kadinsky in Paris. She's grown rather more fond of it. _And_ , she had a wonderful meeting with Valerie LaFleur. I think Valerie will be painting again soon." 

"Wasn't there one from Claude too?" Jack asked. 

"Begging forgiveness," Phryne answered. "It's not presently on offer. And a separate letter from David — new return address — saying he'd like to visit us in Melbourne later in the year." 

"All's well that ends well then," Jack quipped. 

Phryne re-settled herself into a seated position on the bed, wincing slightly as she adjusted her leg. "Within acceptable parameters, darling." 

Jack smiled. They'd be heading back to home to Melbourne together soon. All truly was well. 

“I nearly forgot," he said, casually tossing a paperback in her direction. "I brought you another Sherlock.” 

“Reichenbach Falls on the cover,” she noted with a wry smile. “Subtle.” 

“Can’t have you getting bored.” 

“Certainly not,” she agreed, playing the compliant patient. “You never know what might happen.” 


End file.
